


Scraping Metal

by orphan_account



Series: The Left Side of the Bell Curve [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Storybrooke, Car Accidents, Child Abuse, Driving, M/M, Marijuana, Prescription Drug Abuse, Sequel, Smoking, Sociopath Peter, Sociopathic Peter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-04
Updated: 2014-09-04
Packaged: 2018-02-16 02:19:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2252208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Sequel to <i> Blowing Smoke </i></b>
</p><p> </p><p>His eyes darted out just in time to hear the horn sound, bright headlights in his view. He barely had time to let the worst of his vocabulary kettle out before he spun the wheel, a desperate attempt to swerve out of the way. </p><p>They skidded along the road, spinning with the world in a blur. </p><p>All he heard, besides Peter’s yell, was scraping metal. Something hit his head.</p><p>And then everything went black.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scraping Metal

**Author's Note:**

> **Detailed depiction of both mental and physical child abuse. Tread carefully.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  _Please bear in mind that the sequels are never as good as the original._ Seriously, guys. I'm cringing as I publish this.

Felix was starting to doubt he’d live to see eighteen.  

Or dusk.

Or the next mile marker.

Because - in case Peter didn't notice - Felix was operating a two ton hunk of metal on a goddamn _expressway_. They were surrounded by other cars, and Peter was utterly hellbent on distracting him. Putting on a casual face, reclined back into the seat, ankles crossed up on the dash, squinting under his sunglasses. A nonchalant arm draped out the open window as the wind flew through his hair. It looked innocent. But nothing was ever innocent with Peter Gold.

Ever.

“When we get back, I think I’ll wrap a muffler ‘round your neck.” Peter’s brows darted up, amused, and oh so _pleased_ with himself. “Use it as a leash. You like it when I call you a good boy, don’t you?

“Peter---” Felix figured there had to be something wrong with him, how much of a thrill he was getting out of his boyfriend’s words. He was trying to operate a vehicle. It was the absolute worst possible time for this. And yet Felix couldn’t care less.

“I could use commands. Sit up. Roll over. Come --”  Peter’s grin was widening into something Cheshire. “Don’t you think it’ll be fun? Seems a shame to wait, doesn't it?"

Lifting the center console, seat belt forgotten, Peter plucked his friend’s fingers from the steering wheel. He was serpentine as he slid against Felix’s ribs. His palm skimmed down the zip in his lap, prompting the car to swerve in its lane.

Felix sighed at the contact, his free hand swinging around the boy’s shoulders. Encouraging him to continue. Apparently, he had a death wish.

“Drive.” Peter’s teeth hit Felix’s ear. In a singsong voice, he added,  “Keep your eyes on the road.”

“I can’t with you...” Felix's voice cracked and Peter pressed harder. “Doing that.”

“You didn’t pass your road test by being easily distracted.” With a clucking in his tongue, Peter reached forward to unclip Felix from the seat. “Let’s see if you deserve that license you’ve got.”

Peter adjusted his position on the seat. He dragged his face down Felix’s thick sweatshirt, breathing in the smoke and musk that had weaved its way through the fabric. His hands began shoving denim and cotton out of the way just enough to allow Felix, already half hard, to break free just a little.

And Felix proved to be predictable. Canting up, he shinnied the material down his hips. Peter sniggered softly, sliding his tongue over his lips to wet them. And as though unremarkable, slid Felix into his mouth. Just like that.

Felix bit back a gasp, hand on Peter’s back flexing, pushing back into the leather seat, hips twitching in time to Peter’s movements. He blinked furiously. _Eyes on the road. Eyes on the road. Eyes on the goddamn road._

He garbled, trying to keep his focus on the white and yellow lines on the pavement. The temptation to look, though, was too great. His eyes skittered down to the head of tousled dirty blond hair bobbing and dipping in his lap.

A hand kept the material away from the skin that was growing warm. Pins and needles erupted,  pricked and prodded by a soft tongue.

Felix couldn't help it, he was born for this boy. He gaped at the sheer control and tantalizing actions. Peter had a way of teasing and hinting that this was a preview.  Felix wanted to put his head in the dirt and praise him just then. Instead, he settled for a strained groan, extra weight on the acceleration. "Peter--"

The boy in question hummed pleasantly, as though they weren’t flying along at superhuman speeds. The sloppy noises erupted from his throat, almost muted by the whirring breeze, but audible enough to make Felix keen. Hot wet suckling that rode on the air and burrowed into his ears. Peter kept his fists in tight knots to still his gagging reflex, and nodded his head further forward than before.

Felix was lying back as far as he could and still see over the steering wheel, pulsing his hips. He just couldn’t focus, damn it. Not with Peter’s tongue tracing circles and his mouth opening wide, cheeks hollow - focusing on him.

Peter gave a rather sharp squeeze around the base of his cock,  articulating his tongue with the fluency or an orator. His mouth was slick and hot and perfectly poised around him.

Felix whined. “We’re gonna crash.”

_Now if only I could bring myself to give a fuck..._

The reply was a soft mewl, slide of tongue and a wider gape to the lips, sucking him down as far as his throat would let him.

Peter slid back upwards, releasing Felix from his lips. His voice turned breathy to hit nerves while he spoke. Dotting his skin with kisses between syllables. He spoke in staccato clusters, incomplete and befuddling fragments of sentences. His lips drawing up from his base to tip at the words progressed. “Do. You. Want. Me. To. Stop?”

The boy in the driver’s seat glowered, tightened his hand on the back of Peter’s shirt, signaling the go-ahead. “No.”

“Didn’t think so.” Peter smiled and picked up where he left off, wiping the smile off his face after his teeth nearly ruined the moment.

With his knuckles turned white against the wheel, Felix garbled. He was fighting to keep his eyes from rolling back, toe slamming to the floor over the accelerator. His eyes skimmed to the red needle on the speedometer.

Eighty-seven.

Ninety-five.

Peter knew what he was doing, a little too well. Hard. Fast. Wet with spit and precome.

One hundred.

A tongue beat against a protruding vein, pressing in. Shivers and heat built up in Felix’s tailbone. All he could do was moan. Peter reciprocated the sound.

One ten.

Peter slid back up, brushed his lips along the flushed head in front of him. He set about kissing and sucking and drawing his tongue under the head. Filled the motion with needy kisses and pressure under swollen lips.

The longer he could draw this out, the more fun it was; the more danger they were in, the more exhilarating.

But Felix never lasted when Peter had his mouth on him.

He loosened his grip on the wheel when he came. The little car swerved into the slower traffic on the righthand side. Felix slammed on the brake, almost swaying horizontal on the road. Tires screeched.

Felix was attempting to keep his eyes open, right hand abandoned Peter's shoulder to return to steering. The cars doubled and waved in and out of his vision, warmth and prickling flushing through his stomach. They slowed with a jolt, engine objecting with a clank.

The enraged horns of cars nearby exploded. If Felix hadn’t been so winded, he might’ve told them to fuck off. Instead he watched the speedometer descend into the double-digits.

Peter sat up, a closed-lipped grin on his face, leaving Felix unattended. He returned to the passenger side. Felix was still blinking away the stars when Peter leaned out the window.

He heard Peter spit, the horn blared from the nearest car.

It took a few seconds to process.

“You,” Felix panted, checking the rearview mirror. From behind him, the car’s wipers swished aggressively, smearing white on the windshield. “You didn’t.”

Peter unscrewed a Coke bottle, and started gargling away the tang of come and sweat.  Sugar rested better on the tongue, salt was better off in the throat.

Felix laughed though his flustered breaths even when the anonymous driver extended a rude gesture, jolting his vehicle closer to theirs, almost knocking them together.

“Oh shit, he’s pissed.”

“What on earth did you to do piss him off? Forget to use a blinker?” Peter downed the Coke, chortling and wiping off the side of his mouth. The car behind them put on its signal to join them in their lane.  “Unless you fancy getting run over, you might want to step on it.”

With the haze and afterglow long forgotten, Felix obliged. The radio and the whizz of the air outside played a soft underlying bass to Peter’s tenor, manic and promising laughter.

 

* * *

 

 

The car was full of smoke, tinting the air blue and heavy. Each breath was more intoxicating than the last. Every inch of oxygen turned bittersweet and the silence devoured by insane laughter. Peter curled up to Felix in the backseat, renewing an old hickey with his lips and burning his wrist with the lit end of his joint.

“You’re getting better at this,” Peter purred to Felix’s neck, stifling the erratic mewl that threatened to pop up. “But what’d you say to trading places?”

Felix was hardly responsive, emitting soft murmuring to the way Peter sucked on his neck. He twitched when the burning paper met his wrist, but lit up with the proximity and mix of pain and pleasure that Peter concocted so perfectly.

“So,” Peter drawled, taking a slow drag from his joint, “What do you wanna do?”

“Peter…”

“I could suck your cock again. Ride ya for an hour. Eat you out. What d’you want?”

A wave of electricity shot through Felix’s veins, he melted on the leather seats then and there, brain fogged and, for a moment, lost in the low tone in his ear. Nevertheless, he shook his head. “Not...now.”

His head felt heavy and it lolled to the side.

Peter cocked a brow. “I don’t think you’re gettin’ it. I’m horny and feeling generous. This doesn’t happen often.”

“I know...but...not now.”

It took Peter a moment or two to understand, blink the smog away. But then he sat back. “Have it your way.”

Felix stared at his hand, watching it blur and double before his eyes. There was something heavy in his chest, some sort of lump that made it hard to breathe. Perhaps it was because he didn’t have the ability to rationalize, but he felt a prickling behind his eyes. He wasn’t the sort to cry, but he felt liable to do so at any moment. “I hope I passed this time.”

“Does it matter?” Peter drawled, shaking his head. “It’s just your GED.”

“I won’t be able to do shit with my life without it.”

“Nonsense.” Peter tossed his head, sucking another streamline of sweet smoke down his lungs. “I’ve got plans for you and me. Loads. You don’t need a fuckin’ GED.”

Felix shut his eyes tight. He knew Peter didn’t understand, but he wanted it for himself, nothing to do with Peter at all.

Thinking that, however, almost felt like hell.

“Lemme tell you how it’s gonna go.” Peter toppled over, sighing his toxic laughter with his head in Felix’s lap. “I’m gonna make nice with my dad again someday. And he’ll be so grateful to have a son love him again, that he’ll buy us a house and we won’t - no, we won’t worry about anything. We’ll be set, just to play. You an’ me.”

“Peter, we’re high.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m lyin’. Just trust me. Okay?”

Felix sighed, inhaling even more smoke with the breath. “Fine.”

Peter smirked, blew another mouthful of smoke in his face, in that odd way he had that transformed the rude gesture into something affectionate.

 

* * *

 

 

Felix had to walk home, starting in kindergarten. He had no big brother, nor even a crossing guard in bright orange to see him home safely. He was tall for five, though. So he figured he was about as safe as a second grader.

It was winter, his holey sneakers filled with muck and slush as he toddled on, a Power Rangers backpack filled with crackers he’d bartered from the lunch lady. A hefty prize for helping pass out little cartons of chocolate milk at snack time, bigger than normal. His pockets were filled with Fruit Roll-Ups he’d taken from Billy in exchange for not giving him a bloody nose. This way, if Daddy or Mim forgot to make dinner, he’d have Thanksgiving with his action-figures come six o’clock.

The house was warm - almost hot - when he crashed through the door after two minutes of jiggling the handle. Daddy was home, sitting in a corner, poking the fireplace with a stick, humming along to an orchestra blaring out the radio. He held a glass of milk mixed with some the gross-smelling water he liked to drink in his hand.

The little boy frowned. Daddy was rarely home when he came back from school. Mim must’ve had the afternoon shift at the hospital. Shucking his Power Ranger’s backpack to a corner, he dashed to the kitchen before the sack even collided with the empty beer bottles lining the floor.

It seemed as though Daddy took the last of the milk. There was a carton of orange juice, but it smelled funny. He got in trouble last time he drank something that smelled funny. It took a few minutes of pillaging the cupboards, just like an adventurer, before he found a lonely juice box that’d probably expired a month before. But, it was still a juice box, so that counted for something.

He bounced back to the living room, loaded on springs, and plopped on the sofa since they’d sold the dining table last week to make rent. Stabbing the pointed end of the straw through the foil on the box, the boy started to wonder if he might be able to turn the TV on without disturbing Daddy.

But, then again, they’d lost the remote recently and he wasn’t tall enough to change the channels manually. If it was on one of the glittery stations that made Mim get angry, he’d be in trouble.

“Felix?”

The boy almost jumped, head snapping to the corner. Daddy wasn’t looking away from the fire, but his voice was smiling.

Felix never liked it when Daddy smiled.

“Innit early? You skipping the ‘garten?”

“I’m in A.M kindergarten. We go home at lunch.”  His voice was awfully quiet and impassive for one so young.  

“Come here, son. Sonny. My son. Son of mine. Come here and sit with Da’.”

The boy sucked his juice box dry, trying to ignore the flecks of solid mass that slipped through the straw, before moving to sit before the hearth with his arms around his knees.

“How old’re you now?” Daddy asked, finally shifting bright blue eyes to pierce through the clouded variant before him.

One hand with all five fingers extended shot up as though on command. Felix hid his face behind it.

“Only five?” Daddy sighed. “You’re so little. Soon you’ll be old ‘nough to be a useful type person. You’ll be a useful type, won’t you? You won’t let Da’ and Mim down, will you?”

“I won’t.”

“You’re not a useful type now. You’re the opposite. You just make everything difficult. Mim and me wanted a son. But you aren’t what we thought at all. You aren’t useful. I think you’ll get there though. Once your age goes to two hands, you'll be good. Won’t you?”

Felix nodded, but Daddy didn’t see, too distracted by the fire.

“Looks soft, doesn’t it? Look, Felix. It’s soft.” His eyes were smiling. “Would you messel about touching it? Touch it, Felix. Tell me it’s soft.”

Felix inched away on the rug.

“Touch it,” Daddy repeated, laughing. “It looks soft. Bet it’s soft.” One loud hearty laugh. “It’s soft.”

“I wanna play outside now.” It was a lie- Felix’s toes were still cold and soaked through. But he was five-years-old and wasn’t stupid enough to be fooled into thinking fire was soft.

“Make something use-y of yourself. Put your hand, those five fingers, those five years, into the fire.”

“Daddy ---”

“DO IT!”

The little boy jumped, extending his hand into the curling  flames. He felt hell on his palm, demons bit off his fingers. It was hot, and it covered him, and it hurt.

He withdrew his hand the second after he’d thrust it in, completely absorbed in the pain. His palm was larger than normal. Bubbling up with puffy blisters and bright red. Felix wasn’t sure when he started crying, but the tears fell down his cheeks.

And Daddy smiled.

When Mim came home that night, Felix was still sitting in the tub. He was shivering from cold water, keeping his charred hand submerged. Daddy had put him in, kissing his cheeks and slurring his apologies, promising he’d make them cupcakes later.

Mim had walked into the bathroom, jumped slightly to see her son sitting in the water, face puffy and tear-stained.

Assuming that her husband had just forgotten to get their son out of the bath, she extended a hand to help the boy breach the ceramic edge. That’s when the noticed his injury, eyes shutting momentarily. She’s been dealing with this sort of shit all day at the hospital, couldn’t she just get a break?

But still she dropped to her knees, holding her son’s wrist just below the burn, delicately. Relief came next as she noticed the injury was nothing a little bandaging and antibiotics couldn’t solve. Funny how she’d gone through a rigorous nursing program just to distribute medication to lunatics all day and return home. Funny how she was using years of experience and thousands of dollars in education to treat her clumsy son for something, undoubtedly, moronic.

“Felix, what happened?”

“I put my hand in the fire.”

Mim’s jaw dropped. “You put it in the fire? Do you mean you fell in?”

“I put it in.”

Shaking her head, Mim mumbled under her breath, “I swear you’re getting stupider every day.”

Felix heard, though he’d long since learned not to let her know.

Louder, and to his face, Mim proffered a towel and pulled the plug. She kissed his wrist just under the burn and gave him a smile. It was a much nicer one than what Daddy offered, but her smiles always stopped at her eyes. Felix was never sure which was worse.

 

* * *

 

 

Dr. Hopper’s office was all leather-bound books and sterilized leather. Peter always hated his appointments with the bespectacled man. They were so pointless, because in case nobody cared to notice, _there was absolutely nothing wrong with him._

“So Peter,” The therapist adjusted his jacket and eased into the chair across from him. “What’s new this week?”

“Nothing.”

Dr. Hopper nodded, hiding any potential skepticism under his glasses. “How are things at home after the wedding?”

Peter sighed, rolled his eyes. “Literally no different than before the wedding. Belle’s wearing a bigger ring now. And she can get fat if she wants, I suppose.”

“It’s okay to feel things, Peter. Positive or negative, it’s perfectly normal to have an opinion about your father getting married.”

“But I don’t.”

Dr. Hopper sighed, flipping through his notes. “You said in your last appointment that the wedding was just another excuse for your father to get divorced.”

Peter crossed his ankle over his knee, leaned back in the sofa. “It’d just make sense that he’d stick to his usual pattern. But, here’s the thing, Doctor, _I. Don’t. Care_.”

“Would you, do you think, care if these were your relationships? If you were just married or filing for divorce?”

“I don’t intend to.” He shrugged. “But sure. Why not?”

“Do you think you could transfer some of that to empathize with your father?”

Peter cocked a brow. “All right, Doctor. Explain to me why I should want to empathize.”

“It’s important for your relationships.” Dr. Hopper scribbled something on his notepad. “And you’ve been doing better with empathizing with Felix, haven’t you?”

“I’m using condoms now, if that’s what you mean.” Tossing his shoulder, Peter sighed. “I suppose. But I get something out of that relationship - I want it. Why should I hand out empathy when it doesn’t interest me anyway?”

Dr. Hopper did his best to continue nodding and maintaining his polite interest in his patient. It just didn’t help that they had this conversation every single appointment.  

 

* * *

 

 

Felix woke up screaming in a cold sweat a few nights later. Blinking away the memory that stabbed him behind his eyes: a tall leering face he was forced to call Daddy dumping white alcohol over his head and asking him to please messel with sticking his hand in the fire. A snigger revealed pointed fangs and Felix had lurched awake.

He blinked to the dark room confused for a moment, the expensive wallpaper, the sweat-soaked luxurious mattress under his skin, and the hand wrapped around his forearm reminded him he was with Peter, the talons embedded into his veins confirmed it.

Peter had been sleeping, unknowing of the nightmare beside him, and Felix struggled to calm himself, swiping a free hand through his bangs.

The nails in his arm flexed sleepily and Felix blinked away the second memory. The pinwhistle. The knife on his face. The shouting. The singing.

He gritted his teeth. No memories. Not now. Without thinking, he moved his arm and Peter's eyes came fluttering open.

Funny, he thought for a moment, how the screaming didn’t wake Peter, but the movement under his hand had.

Peter blinked a few times, beautiful and hazy with sleep. “Wha’?”

“‘S nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Peter’s eyes opened to full attention, green and suddenly bright like the daytime. “No it isn’t. What happened?”

“Nightmare.”

Peter cocked his eyebrow, unconvinced. “You woke me up because you had a nightmare?”  
“Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Well you did.”

Felix shrugged, propping his head up on the stack of pillows near the headboard, looking down at the boy curled up around his side. Peter’s fingernails were red from where they’d dug into Felix’s arm and their calves were intertwined, but the boy’s irritated expression suggested nothing to back the physical intimacy.

It was one of the things that came with involvement with a sociopath. Felix didn’t mind, not really. He’d always been oddly serene about Peter’s diagnosis. Even before he met the kid, and it had been heated gossip about how Mr Gold’s son had been expelled and was, apparently, well on the left side of the bell curve.

Peter was always nonchalant about it, and Felix figured that was part of what he liked about him.

Should’ve been a red flag, Felix knew it. But it wasn’t.

At least, when he had the option to befriend anyone in Storybrooke, Peter had looked him dead in the eye and said _, I want that one._

“Must’ve been a hell of a nightmare.” Peter shoved Felix from reverie. He had moved while Felix was thinking, shifted to hog the majority of the pillow, with his face just under Felix’s, hands manipulating his shoulders to align with his. “You’re ignoring me.”

“How could I?”

“You tell me.”

Felix sighed. “Do you really want to know?”

“Do I?”

“My dad--” Felix paused. “Just a flashback. Don’t worry about it.”

Peter’s brows set. “Which one?”

“Which what?”

“Which memory did you flash back to?”

Felix sighed, not answering. But his anger was apparent, jarring in the way it threaded through every inch of the air.

“Oh come on, now. It’s not so disastrous…”

It was obvious Felix disagreed. If only he had the gumption to say so.

"Let's avoid talking about your daddy issues when we're in bed, yeah?" Peter amended, fingers nudged the crevice under Felix's collarbone. "'Makes refraction worse, your complaining. I’m not in the mood for this.”

Felix evaluated the boy next to him with pursed lips. He had to wonder why everything was always his fault.

“I want you here.” Peter lifted himself onto his elbows, Felix fell onto his back to allow the boy to hover over him. “Not wherever the hell you were just now.”

Then Peter sighed with a lift to the brow, swiped a hand through Felix’s tangles, sifting locks of blond hair between his fingers, announced that he'd be going back to sleep.

Felix nodded, hoping that there was more weight to Peter’s words than simply, _Stop waking me up for stupid reasons, you complete dick._

He was hoping that Peter was trying to say, however obscurely, that he didn’t like it when Felix’s past caught up to him, or when he was upset. That, even though everything was a game and sympathy was boring, Felix was somehow an exception to the rule.

  


* * *

 

 

When Felix pulled up by the curb in front of his house, he was pleased to see Mim’s car was nowhere in sight. Good -- that meant she had the evening shift. At this rate, he figured, he’d be able to shower and get the grease off his skin before he had to pick up Peter from therapy.

The pleasant feeling faded, however, when he went to check the mail. There, amongst bills and late payment notices and a new issue of Cosmopolitan, was a thick envelope with the teal logo he dreaded: _GED Testing Services._

He hadn’t even seen his last score, having shoved it down the garbage disposal before he could see the numbers. But Mim had filled in the blanks well enough for him. “You’re in the fucking 200s,” she’d said.

     That’s a little under half the score he’d need to pass. A little under half the score he’d need to legally work the job he’d been doing for two years, and get paid salary. A little under half the score that’d let him do anything other than disintegrate into mediocrity.  

Perhaps that was predestined though. He'd studied the first time, and positively flunked. The second time, he'd tried to study harder. He really did.

  But studying was a difficult task with Peter getting handsy behind him, pulling at him for something far more fun than the Pythagorean Theorem.

   Usually Felix would decline the proffered joint afterward, in hopes of picking up the books again. Sometimes it’d happen, most of the time it didn’t.

  Felix hadn’t minded in the slightest. In fact, he’d enjoyed the halt in thought, the buzz from nicotine, and the scent of tobacco and marijuana heavy in the air, Peter flooding all his senses.

   But, skimming his thumb over the thick envelope, he was forced to face the fact that dope and academia don’t exactly go hand in hand.

With little else left, Felix sighed and shoved the envelope into his glove compartment. Peter might be willing to rip the bandage for him - or at least with him. The kid was shit at comfort, but, ironically, anything he’d have to say would be better than, “Did you even attempt to pass or were you too busy making a dick of yourself and getting high?”

Besides, Peter had a way of making it all seem inconsequential. As though, if Felix would just stand beside him, they’d wind up okay in the end no matter what. And, even on the worst of days, Felix could believe it.

He carded through the rest of the mail as he stalked up the driveway, all bills and junkmail. He checked his phone and let out a small groan. Ideally he’d have time to grab something to eat and take a shower before Peter’s appointment got out.  He’d never been late picking Peter up anywhere, and the idea left an unpleasant taste in his mouth.

And so he sighed and jostled the doorknob. It took a few minutes to swing it into motion.The cracked front door came screeching open, but that wasn’t the reason his blood ran cold.

“Felix? Innit early? You skipping work?”

Alexander Ratched was sitting on the motheaten sofa, fiddling with a cat’s cradle, smiling.

~~_Felix never liked it when Daddy smiled._ ~~

“Aren’t you supposed to be in a straightjacket?” Felix spit, hands still curled around the doorknob.

Alexander looks up from his string. “Don’t be rude, son. They let me out. So long as I take these pilly things, I should have model behavior. ‘M all better. No more ‘plosions. Promise.”

In spite of himself, Felix closed the door behind him and stalked, slowly, into the living room.

“You’ve said that before.”

“But like I said, I’ve got these pilly things now.” Alexander pulled a face. And then he wagged his hand. “C’m’ere, son. Come here and sit with Da’.”

And Felix, all of five years old again, complied.

  


* * *

 

 

 

Peter was leaning against the facade of Dr. Hopper’s office by the time Felix - finally - swung into the car park. He ground his cigarette into the pavement with his shoe and began talking even before he opened the passenger’s side door.

“You know, if you’re gonna be an hour late I might as well just walk home,” He faded at the end of the statement, having looked over across the vehicle. “You’re peaky. What’s wrong?”

Felix shook his head, mouth stitched tight as he flipped the gear shift and lurched forward in the car with uncharacteristic clumsiness.

Peter blinked, just shy of dumbstruck. Felix was something of a driving ace, at least far as Peter was concerned, and the car was practically spinning. He wasn’t even this out of control when Peter had blown him behind the wheel.

“C’mon, what happened?” Peter pressed as they skimmed over to Main Street and onto the residential drive where Peter lived, “I’m gonna find out anyway so you might as well tell me.”

The wheels spun, Felix shook his head, eyes darting from the rearview mirror back through the windscreen.

“Felix.” Peter pressed, holding onto the center console for support. “Don’t be dramatic. Just tell me.”

And when the driver still refused to respond, Peter growled. “Feelix.  Tell me or I’ll start guessing.”

He knew how much Felix hated it when he analyzed him.

“My dad’s out of the hospital.” Felix muttered, under his breath. If Peter weren’t listening for it, he probably would’ve missed it.

But he did hear. And his stomach fell out from under him the second he understood the words.

“What the hell?” He muttered, mind swarming. “How the fuck would they figure that it’s even remotely safe--”

“He’s better.”

“What?”

“He got over it.”

Peter scoffed, little lines of red darting his vision. “You don’t just get over mental disease.”

He was practically breathing fire. The bastard was back. And he’d already gotten to Felix in a few short hours. Theoretically, that happened in these situations. But Felix was so easy to manipulate, so eager to be loved. He’d buy into anything just so long as he thought he’d get reassurance.

And Pan be damned if anyone was going to snatch Felix away.

“You’re not dangerous,” Felix reasoned, but Peter groaned. “And you’re a soc--”

“I’m high-functioning.” Peter cut him off. “There’s a difference between the socio and the pyscho.”

“Neither of those are recognized diagnoses…”

“Oh fuck off, Felix.”

Felix swerved in his lane. “I have to give him a second shot. He’s my father--”

“He sliced your face open with a knife.”

Something in the sentence had Felix lurching forward in his seat. He snapped his head over to Peter, eyes boring through his skull, paying no mind to the road before him. “What are you trying to get out of this, Peter? How does my relationship with my father affect you?”

Peter snapped his head to the road. His voice shorted out, suddenly turning panicked. “Felix…”

“No, I’m not done. Sometimes people can change or put in an effort without an agenda--”

“Felix!”

“And just because you can’t--”

_“FELIX!”_

His eyes darted out just in time to hear the horn sound, bright headlights in his view. He barely had time to let the worst of his vocabulary kettle out before he spun the wheel, a desperate attempt to swerve out of the way.

They skidded along the road, spinning with the world in a blur.

All he heard, besides Peter’s yell, was scraping metal.

Something hit his head.

And then everything went black.

 

* * *

 

 

By the time Felix lolled back to consciousness, he was already in the hospital. In a bleached phosphorescent room that seemed to sway around in his vision as he tried to figure out if his urge to laugh was from uppers or a hidden side-effect in tranquilizers.

Nothing hurt just yet. He knew it would soon. It was the second big crash he’d been in, and he knew just how bad it could hurt and just how great the cost of totaling a car.

The second the thought popped into his brain, he forcefully reminded himself of the potential greater cost. Spasming on the bed, he flipped to the nearest nurse - a curvy redhead with freckles. He didn’t even bother wondering why Mim wasn’t the nurse assigned to him - why she didn’t bother to make an effort to see to her own son. Instead he coughed to the redheaded nurse and asked, “Peter Gold. ‘s he okay?”

His words were sluggish out of his mouth, but it was a delayed grogginess he was more than used to.

The nurse smiled. It stopped at her eyes.

“He’s fine. So’s the other driver.” She said. “You got the worst of it.”

Felix noticed the braces around a leg, lifted above the bed in a sling, on his wrist, and some sort of pressure around his head. He still didn’t feel anything. Vicodin, maybe. Good stuff, he resolved to remember.

“Just get some sleep,” The nurse finished. “Mimzy’ll either come and get ya when her shift’s done, or your dad’ll come pick you up.”

Felix didn’t even register the strangeness in that last sentence, as though everyone suddenly forgot who his father was. The drip from his IVs plopped loudly in his ears, and the next thing he knew he was opening his eyes again to a nudge in the bed. It was darker than it’d been earlier, curtains drawn around the windows.

He’d be lying if he didn’t experience mild relief to see Peter standing over his bed, wearing an odd grin. The relief faded, though, when he saw the deep purple bruise on the side of his friend’s face.

“Sorry,” He slurred almost instantly.

Peter cocked a brow but then shook his head, recovering, sighing out “You stupid idiot.” A moment more and he said, “Can you scoot?”

Felix made the attempt, finding his limbs heavy and sore. After shaking his head, Peter shrugged and climbed over the bedrail. He made himself liquid in that funny way that only Peter could. His knees bracketed Felix’s good leg, and he floundered and twisted to contort himself on the side of the bed. From the hips down he faced side, ribs up he laid on his back.

If Felix had full possession of his faculties he might’ve wondered if he was comfortable. As it was, he merely turned his head to watch as Peter pulled a fine-tip Sharpie from his pocket and began to scrawl on the plaster and mesh of his casts.

Felix might’ve thought to ask what he was doing, but he didn’t really have the mind to. It was funny how much of a difference there was in purposely altering one’s mind because there was nothing better to do and having an IV in one’s veins because of a nearly fatal lapse in judgement.

He knew he’d probably hate himself the instant the vicodin faded, but he felt comfortable and calm. He knew it was all his fault, and that he’d feel bad and the memory of his last crash would spitfire in his brain. But at that moment, in his hospital bed with Peter scrawling either letters or shapes with a fumey marker, he felt okay.

He dozed off again, woken when Peter adjusted himself on the bed and the glass sliding door of his room came scraping open. The redheaded nurse padding into the room on squeaking white sneakers. Behind her, Peter groaned as he noted his father on her tail.

“You can’t be in here,” The redheaded nurse tutted. “‘s after visiting hours and you’re not family.”

To this, Peter rolled his eyes. “I had to see for m’self. You lot made it sound like he ripped in half.”

Gold sighed and pressed down on his cane to straighten his shoulders. “We have to go, Peter.”

“I can walk home,” Peter muttered, staying put.

“Peter--”

“Don’t boss me, Dad.” Peter shot up in bed, accidentally shaking Felix, wincing and biting his tongue, beside him. “You’re not cut out for it.”

If looks could kill, Gold might’ve committed filicide right in that hospital room.

“You can’t be in here.” The nurse repeated, sensing the tension in the room.

As though it weren’t bad enough, just then a third body stepped through into the little hospital room. A tall lanky man with dirty clothes and wild eyes. “Wha’s goin’ on?”

Felix immediately tensed. He slurred his words, barely at attention, but enough to know what might happen. “Peter. Youshouldgo.”

“What?”

“Go. Please.”

Peter clamped his mouth shut, eyes flicking over to Alexander Ratched in the doorway. If he’d hated the way Felix tensed around his mother, it was nothing compared to the way he, even drugged to high heavens, cowed down to this man. Felix had been doing so well, too, turning his back on his old life and slipping into something comfortable with just the two of them. And suddenly, just because his father was out of a padded cell, Felix jumped and asked Peter to leave?

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

He didn’t.

In fact, it was almost a full week later before Peter saw Felix again.

To say he was annoyed would be putting it lightly. But the week passed and ended with Peter lying on his back, cigarette between his teeth, flicking through the channels on his telly, bored as all hell. At least until his mobile rang, the text alert coming up quietly and then crescendoing with a pop like a bubble.

 

**Felix**

(14:34)  
_u home?_

Peter rolled his eyes. A week of no contact and that’s all he gets? Fine then. He texted back the affirmation and it seemed as though he’d just sent the reply when his mobile lit up again.

 

**Felix**

(14:37)  
_can u help me up the steps?_

Felix was waiting for him outside, one leg propped up in a wheelchair, one arm resting in a sling, assorted bruises in various shades of green on his face. His lips quirked up as Peter plodded down the steps by the front door. “Hey.”

Peter raised his brows, “Hey? You ignore me, and now it’s ‘hey?’

“I’ve been busy.” Felix started to say, but then amended himself, explaining that he just got the wheelchair. He couldn’t use crutches because of his arm; his body had put him under house arrest.

With a sigh, Peter rolled his eyes. The idea of being anything less than priority made his stomach clench. “Been bonding with dear old dad, then?”

“Peter. Don’t do this.” Felix bit his cheek. And then, looking around the street to be certain no neighbors were out and about, he reached into the long pocket of his sweatshirt and withdrew a small orange cylinder. “Got a refill,” He said by way of apology. “Prescription grade painkiller.”

Sure to sigh, make it clear that Peter was being generous, he rolled his eyes. He came close, crouched down with a hand on the backside of Felix’s bruised neck. “Fine,” His breath teased over Felix’s mouth, lips triggering light against his before pulling back, pill bottle in hand.

It took a few moments, and a few sharp groans from Felix, to maneuver their way into the den and on the sofa, to prop Felix’s bad leg up on a pillow on the coffee table. They barely spoke as Felix set up the queue on Netflix and as Peter flung a heavy quilt over them before tipping their heads back and swallowing down the white pills.

Peter figured he had about twenty minutes before the haze set in. He figured he ought to try to use his brain while he still could, get some information so he could figure out a gameplan after he sobered.

He slid on the suede on the sofa, making it transition from dark to light under them. Making certain he looked as angelic as possible, he curled up around the quilt. He wasn’t expecting it when Felix’s arm coiled around his waist, pulling him back against his side. Felix’s good leg slotted between Peter’s, earning a grin.

Unwilling to be outdone, Peter made his voice go sweet when Felix kissed his neck. “What’s all this for?”

“Like you said, it’s been a week,” Felix drawled, starting to feel lightheaded. One hand twitched in his sling, but he was too distracted to wince. The other plunged under Peter’s waistband.

“Huh.” Peter mused, chewing on the scenario. “You’d think you would’ve put in some effort.”

“Peter. I told you.” Felix growled, but couldn’t help pressing in close with kisses for peace offerings. He could still taste smoke on Peter's lips, the telltale bitterness of a coated pill on his tongue.

Peter all but purred when they broke. “Well, look who’s on his best behavior.”

“Of course I am.” Felix murmured. “I missed you.”

Peter's return glance was more than a smirk or a grin. He was nearly beaming. As though he'd won some challenge only he knew he was attempting. He didn't respond verbally, but kissed him again and let the chemicals sweep them away.

  


Felix’s tongue felt funny. Big in his mouth and heavily pressing into his jaw. It had to weigh a few pounds. With his eyes poised on whatever was on the TV, he let his eyelids flutter and set to work gnawing on the heavy muscle. Maybe he could chew the funny tingle away.

“Stop that,” Peter’s voice came rumbling from beside him, still nestled under his arm and burrowing under the blanket. He was obviously stoned out of his mind, acting cuddly like that. His hand met Felix’s face, scraping his nails along his scar. “What if ya bite ya tongue off?”

Felix dipped his head back on the couch. He hadn’t thought of that.

“I have too much fun with it,” Peter continued, slurring and adjusting his position to rest his chin in the dips of Felix’s collarbone. “Don’t bite it off.”

Felix nodded lazily, watching the room haze in and out of focus. His bones melted under his skin, sliding and buttery, catching the way his heart and stomach prickled and drowned in the pooling viscous remains of his bones.

“D’you feel like you’re flying?” Peter’s voice slid in through the melting butter of his skull. Shadowy and static, almost like he was half there. “Floating? High up in th’ sky. The whole fuckin’ world under ya…”

“But issit purple?”

“The fuck?”

“My tongue.” Felix didn’t know why, but it felt like it was purple.

“Lemme see.”

Peter carefully examined the wet muscle when Felix stuck his out. It blurred in and out of his vision, but was unmistakably pink. With a lopsided smirk, he jostled gracelessly to his knees and swiped his own tongue again’s Felix’s. “You’re fine.”

Felix responded predictably, taking his evidently not-purple tongue and running it over Peter’s bottom lip. He used his good hand to guide Peter up onto his unbound leg, tried to hold him still, but he could feel the earth move around them, so it was hard to tell what was in motion and what was stationary.

Peter missed his mouth a bit, lipping around his chin and nose. Laughing as he tried to maneuver around Felix’s lips, sliding against teeth and tongue. Saliva tasted bitter and everything melted around them.

 

* * *

 

 

Peter woke up a few hours later, he wasn’t entirely sure when, but given his father’s clunky gait and serpentine voice curling through the air, he knew it was after seven.

“Have they been asleep since you got home?”

Belle’s voice came in response, partially distracted. The telltale shuffle of china against wood told Peter they were in the middle of supper. “Yeah. They haven’t moved. Must’ve been exhausted.”

“Exhausted.”  

Peter almost growled at his father’s intonation, but kept still, his cheek on Felix’s shoulder.

“They don’t smell like it this time.”

“Perhaps they’re getting creative.”

“Rum,”  Peter could all but see the expression on his stepmother’s face - delicately severe with a copious amount of understanding in her eyes - “Why don’t you try talking to him? He’s your son. You can’t patch things up if neither of you try.”

“He doesn’t want to try.” There’s more shuffling on the table.

“Everyone wants a family. I can’t imagine Peter’s excused from that.”

He was. Peter rolled his eyes to himself. It was an absurd thought but, maybe, one that he could use to his advantage.

Felix twitched under his head, and Peter lifted up to watch his eyes flutter open. The second he took in his surroundings, he grimaced.

“I think you leaned on my bad arm.”

“Take another pill then.” Peter muttered, at the same time bumping shoulders with Felix’s uninjured side. “You’re awfully hot when your eyes go glassy.”

Felix shot him a deadpan gaze around the same time there was more shuffling from the kitchen. Peter heard Belle’s hushed voice, and her intention to sound commanding, “Talk to him,” before the noises transferred to the grinding of the garbage disposal.

“It’s late,” Felix broke Peter from his observations. “I should probably call a cab.”

Felix wanted to go home? If Peter were the type to get worried, he might. He knew the patterns, the way people inherently wanted to forgive the hand that hit them. He knew how attached Felix got to people. And if Felix was more interested in getting to know his father again, something that would undoubtedly blow up in his face, Peter might get left behind.

The one person in Storybrooke who let him in, in danger of walking away.

Completely unacceptable.

And so, Peter wrapped his arm around Felix’s good arm, nudged his chin on his shoulder. “Stay the night.”

“I can’t get up the stairs.”

“We’ll stay out here. Not like the couch is gonna mess up your back any more than it already is.”

Felix looked at him, the same as he always did, a soft, almost affectionate curve to his lips, while his eyes were harsh and metallic, constantly wanting to light fire to something, to start something that wouldn’t end until they were both undone.

But he nodded, used his fingertips to pull on the base of Peter’s hair. The tugging jetted Peter’s chin to point to the ceiling. He wouldn’t have tolerated it if not for the way Felix licked into his mouth the second he opened it.

Felix barely moved away from Peter’s mouth when his lips slid up into a closed smile. “How could I say no to you?”

With a cheeky grin, Peter pressed in closer again. He quirked his brow, voice drawn low and as close to loving as he was capable of expressing. “You can’t.”

 

Rain pelted the windows, loud and percussive, a thin undertone to the surround-sound voice of a child’s voice croaking, ‘ _Redrum. Redum. Redrum.'_

Peter leaned on his knuckles and sighed. Somehow, he thought there’d be something more entertaining in watching Jack Nicholson go berserk and try to murder his family.

But, then again, he was never one for films.

Felix seemed perfectly content to vegetate and not think about anything other than that abandoned hotel in the mountains displayed on the screen before him, slouching with one arm in a sling. .

Which was fine. But Peter wanted a little more stimulation. He  figured it was his turn to direct the activity, curling up to Felix’s side and murmuring, “Aren’t you bored yet?”

“No.”

Peter sighed. “Lying around’s making your more tired.”

Felix lifted the remote to pause the DVD and turned to the boy hanging off his side. “It’s late.” To Peter’s drawn brows, he sighed, “What are you suggesting?”

“Recreation.” Peter was all grins as he snatched the remote from Felix’s hands, pressing the power button at the same time he straddled Felix’s good leg, crossing his wrists around Felix’s neck.

Felix shot him a flat look. “What is it?”

Peter quirked a half smile, adjusting his seating so that his knee burrowed into Felix’s crotch, twitching his leg a little just to prompt the noise from the back of Felix’s throat. He ignored the question, laving an open kiss against his tongue, breathing into his mouth. “God, you’re hot.”

Felix knew better. There had to be some agenda Peter was working with, but he really couldn’t complain with the kid rubbing against him like that, singing his praises in that heady voice.

“A whole week,” Peter continued, smearing his lips all over Felix’s mouth and neck. “A whole fucking week. Didn’t you want me too?”

“Of course I did,” Felix muttered, syllables muddled between the extra mouth pressed up to his. “I just couldn’t get away.”

“Well, you’ve got me now,” Peter smirked, twitching his hips closer up Felix’s side. “I know you’ve only got one arm and one leg right now, but,” His eyes lit. “Sounds like a challenge to me.”

“Your dad and Belle…”

“Are asleep.”

Felix bit on Peter’s ear, tongue dipping over the curling skin. “All right.”

Peter reclined, lifting his neck. When Felix unfastened Peter’s fly with one hand, his eyes grew at his dexterity. Head shooting back, he sighed and murmured the compliments he knew Felix always wanted to hear as he responded to the kneading rolls by Felix’s palm.

“Damn, Felix. You’re getting so good at this.”

Peter definitely had an agenda,  but just like before, Felix couldn’t bring himself to give a

shit. He loved it when Peter was so verbal, so unusally loving. He usually wasn’t. And when he was, he was after something.

He was a sociopath, after all. Felix understood that, and yet he couldn’t help but crave praise.

But Felix kissed him and told himself to forget coherent thought as he dipped his hand under denim and cotton, circling Peter’s cock in his hand.

And Peter shuddered and grinned. “Now, now. We’ve got all night, love.”

Felix’s head snapped up, drawing his hand up slowly, rubbing circles around the folds of Peter’s foreskin. Felix’s eyes narrowed, ignoring the sudden pooling heat in his abdomen and the twitching in his dick. “Love?”

“Just trying it on,” Peter smirked, nibbling on Felix’s lips, one hand rubbing on his chest. He laughed. “See what you like.”

“I prefer my name.” Felix muttered, pushing away from Peter’s lips in order to lick his hand, starting at the heel of his palm to the tip of his fingers.

“Indeed,” Peter’s eyes darkened, hissing when Felix’s hand returned to him, stroking him slowly, steepling his fingers just to drive him wild. Peter’s head flew back, biting his lips and twitching his hips, gasping out, “Felix. Oh god, Felix.”

At that point, Felix knew that he’d never give two shits about whatever was on Peter’s agenda, just so long as he kept saying his name in that voice.

He was so fucking in love.

Peter twisted his hand back, palming down between’s Felix’s thighs. Felix’s cock twitched under denim, already getting soaked from the stimulation.

Their mouths came together, open and sloppy, moaning over each other’s tongues as they continued to fuck into each other’s hands.

 

Peter woke again sometime around four in the morning to the kettle whistling. Somewhat hazy in his drag away from sleep, and from the leftover stardust that’d knocked him out in the first place, it took him a while to absorb his surroundings.

He’d fallen asleep on the couch, so it seemed, shirt hiked up to his ribs and pyjama bottoms inside out. It took a few good seconds of inhaling the lingering scent of marijuana in cotton and a cheap chemist’s cologne before he realised how his limbs were splayed around Felix underneath him.

So, nothing too out of the ordinary. Except for the kettle.

If for no reason other than his casts and numerous scabs and bruises, Felix was in something of a delicate position. Peter took what time he could in untangling their limbs, pausing when Felix sleepily groaned from the feeling of a bone tossed against plaster, but eventually climbed off the cushions. He didn’t bother lowering his shirt until he padded in towards the kitchen, turning the corner slow just in time to see his stepmother pouring herself a mug of hot water.

He announced himself with an observation. “You’re frustrated.”

It was obvious in the way her brow creased, from what he’d overheard the night before. A window of opportunity was closing, an opportunity to get another person on his side. And, what’s more, someone who actually had influence over his old man - could turn him into a soppy idiot without even trying. If he could convince her to see things his way, and he might actually get somewhere.

And if Peter had to act like he gave two shits to get there, so be it.

Belle jolted up at the intrusion, spilling the scalding water on her knuckles with an innocent swear. “Peter,” She said, shuffling towards the sink to cool her hand. “You frightened me.”

“Sorry.” Peter leaned on his elbows, skidding forward on the marble finish of the island. “Can’t sleep?”

“Just wanted some cocoa,” Belle said all too lightly. “Would you like some?”

Peter shook his head, and narrowed his gaze as the woman abandoned the cool water in the sink for the steaming mug on the table, mixing in a packet of Swiss Miss.

“Are we out of milk?”

“No, this is quicker.” Belle shook her head and took a seat across from Peter. She yawned and wiped leftover clumps of mix from her lower lip before indicating the den. “Did you and Felix fall asleep watching a movie?”

“Yeah.” Peter couldn’t help the way visions of a few hours before danced behind his eyes. “Watching a movie.”

He never would have guessed Belle to be savvy enough to catch his drift, and yet her eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything.

It was a fragile road they walked on, after all.

Belle stirred her mug, waiting for the clumps of premixed cocoa to dissolve. “So,” She began, not noticing the way Peter blinked across the table. “You’re graduating in the spring. Have you given any thought to what you want to--”

“We really don’t have to do this.” Peter waved his hand, spinning around the edge of the kitchen island to shuffle through cupboards.

“Do what?”

“Play house?” Peter picked up a box of Tollhouse biscuits, popped one in his mouth. “You trying to be a mother?” He made his voice sad, collapsing down on the stool beside his stepmother with a small breath. “I’ll be moving on out soon enough and you won’t have to worry about me.”

_Check and mate._

“What do you mean?”

Peter shrugged, looked into his hands. “Dad obviously doesn’t want me to stay. I mean, I’m not my brother. Why would he want me?”

Belle frowned, concern practically clouding her eyes. It was almost cliche. But she steepled her fingers on the mug. “I can talk to him for you.”

“Would you?”

“But you’ve got to do your part too.”

Peter cocked a brow, debating if this was the time to bring in the classic ‘You’re not my real mum,’ argument.

“You can’t just skate around getting high with Felix all the time. Let us help you. What do you want to do? Go to uni? Get a job?”

Peter shrugged and the lie came easily. “I...I dunno.”

Truthfully, he had been banking on the idea that he could live on the family’s wealth the rest of his life. Growing up sounded boring -- especially when he didn’t plan to grow old in the first place.

But, without even thinking about it, he lied a second time. “I’ll think about it.”

 

* * *

 

 

The cycle repeated half a dozen times. Felix would stay late, slumped on the sofa with Peter by his side, smoking on the porch. When he Felix would mention calling a cab to take him home, Peter would suddenly slide closer, ask him to stay the night.

“I stayed last night.” Felix mumbled, even though he knew that he’d end up staying anyhow.

“What does that matter? Don’t you like our little sleepovers?”

“Of course I do,” Felix said, small grin on his lips, a small roll to his eyes. He leaned back on the sofa, signaling that he was in for the night. “I didn’t pack up my toothbrush last night, did I?”

Peter shrugged, flopping against the arm of the couch, foot absently nudging the blinding on Felix’s leg. “Hell if I know.”

They settled, the track from the telly playing a narrative that sufficed for white noise behind their ears. And while they sat in verbal silence, Peter’s mind set about, trying to focus on the usual action and reactions to these sort of things.

He hated having to ask, having to put some effort in asking Felix to stay over. The fact that he even considered going back to that house with his parents was baffling at best and infuriating at worst.

Peter Gold was not, and never would be, one to come in second. To anyone, and least of all to parents that had spent seventeen years making damn sure to destroy Felix. He wouldn’t let that happen. Felix was the only person on his side, one of the only people he gave a damn about in the first place. And the only person who sometimes drove Peter to do things without intention.

Usually those unintentional things were simple and expected - distracting Peter to the point he was willing to throw his composure out the window and put his own hands on himself, or something was small as snapping a biscuit in half to share.

And so, Peter’s surprise came in no small measure, even to himself, when he opened his mouth without thinking about it. “And while we’re on the topic, I’d like you to stay tomorrow.”

Felix arched his brow. “I don’t exactly have pajamas here, Peter.”

“Well, let’s get you a drawer, then. Or two.” Peter watched as Felix snapped to face him, small biting wince in his teeth when the force hit his arm in its sling. He looked confused, brows knit tight. Peter loved how Felix looked when he tried to read between the lines, and so, he smirked, slid in closer on cushions. “Or why don’t you take the whole dresser? The wardrobe’ll suffice for me.”

“Peter,” It was obvious that Felix longed to shift his weight, face Peter square on, and his binding in plaster and mesh was starting to bother him. “Just tell me what you’re asking.”

“I’m asking you to stay,” Peter said, voice even. “For good, preferably.”

Felix’s face dropped, incredulous and lips twitching, teasing a grin. “You...you want me to move in?”

“There it is,” Peter’s mouth flipping up, echoing a phrase from the first time he really made waves with Felix. “What do you say?”

Felix was already nodding before Peter punctuated his sentence. Peter always gave previews to the future with Felix. He spoke of running away and getting a “flat” someplace and scraping by in the most noir situations possible. But, for the first time, it felt real.

There were, of course, complications. Mr. Gold and Belle weren’t likely to just allow the matter, at least not before Felix turned eighteen, but Peter would get to them eventually. He always did.

Maybe it’s just one of the more finite parts of dating a sociopath.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

>  **Potential Next Parts in this AU**
> 
> \- Adventures of Panlix living together (possibly a Christmas fic)  
> \- Meet Peter's mother.  
> \- ???  
> \- Or I just leave well enough alone.


End file.
